The Great Escape
by CrossingTheSky
Summary: Matthew Williams spent the first 20 years of his life chained to the wall in France's basement.  Now, he wants out, but Francis isn't going to let him go without a fight.  Matthew/Ivan, but it takes 4 chapters for it to happen.
1. The Escape

So I've never written a fanfic before (or any other form of story, really) so your critisizm will be greatly appreciated :)

The intro is pretty bad, I didn't know how to start the story so don't be surprised when you discover how poorly-written it is. It gets better though, or at least I think it does. I'm hoping to make it several chapters long. Enjoy :)

.oOo.

A lone figure huddled next to the concrete wall, his sightless eyes staring at the numerous chalk drawings that adorned it. Each brick had a number, which represented the number of days it had been since he saw the sunlight. Over half the cell was covered in chalk.

His name was Matthew. He was from Canada, but he was of French descent. He had been trapped in this room for almost as long as he could remember. He was somewhere in France, he knew that, but his knowledge of the outside world was otherwise non-existent. The room was threadbare, its' only furniture was a small cot for it's single occupant. It was always cold. Once a day a small tray of food was pushed through a flap in the steel door. It was never enough to sate his constant hunger, but he knew the food was not meant to do so. He would be given the necessities needed to stay alive, and nothing more. All he could do was stare at the wall, and wait for his tormentor.

The door to his cell swung open, a man stood leaning against the doorway, an evil gleam in his eyes. "Bonjour Matthew, comment-ca va?

Receiving nothing more than an accusing glare, he strode forward, watching as his prisoner cowered against the wall. "Mon petit, qu'est-que le jour?"

Slowly, Matthew whispered "C'est Noël."

Beaming, Francis grabbed his arms, pulling his from the wall and out of his cell, dragging him out to the open hallway. "Joyeux Noël, mon frère."

Slowly, Matthew ground out the words, "Joyeux Noël, grand frère." He allowed himself to be led down the hallway, his mind blank. It was that time again. Where he would be paraded around his brother's manor like a dog, forced to attend celebrations and dinners, and catch a glimpse of freedom before being shoved roughly back to his frozen jail in the cellar, and beaten roughly as penance for what he had seen. His brother's false joy didn't fool him for a second; this was just another beating, drawn out to prolong his agony.

His brother shoved him into a bedroom, slamming the doors behind him. Matthew knew the routine. He was to clean himself up and present himself at dinner. Until then, he was to stay in the room. It was like this every year. Or so he thought.

Matthew lay on the extravagant bed, staring up at the ceiling. He had showered and shaved, and felt better than he had in almost a year. Francis had left him some sweat pants and a tee shirt, as well as a pair of formal dress pants and a silk shirt that he was expected to wear that evening. Matthew's heart lifted slightly as he felt the softness of the sweatpants. He hadn't worn anything but rags since last Christmas. Beneath the shallow happiness, however, dread was slowly curling through his stomach, growing larger as he thought about the events that would take place that night.

Suddenly, the door swung open, revealing a grinning Francis. He strode over to where Matthew lay on the bed, sitting on the edge and watching his brother's expression change from one of peace to one of barely concealed anger and fear. Reaching over, he brushed a stray strand of hair out of the Canadian's eyes. Matthew's expression didn't change, his violet eyes watching those of his brother, trying to read his thoughts. Sighing, Francis turned to Matthew. "Mon frère, as-tu m'aime?"

Matthew sighed, running his hands along the edge of the downy comforter. Avoiding his brother's eyes, he replied, "Oui".

Francis beamed at him before standing and making his way to the door. He had heard what he wanted to hear. Matthew was his, he thought possessively. Francis smirked briefly as he thought of the pleasure that awaited him that night. Glancing back at his brother he whispered, "Je dois y aller. Au revoir."

Matthew watched his brother exit the room, the door swinging shut behind him. He could faintly hear the click of a lock. Leave it to Francis to install locks on all the doors in his house. Sighing, he rolled out of bed, absentmindedly running a hand through his messy blond hair. He tried the door, nodding to himself as he confirmed that it was locked. Jogging to the large bay window that overlooked the courtyard, he contemplated his escape. Every year he made a desperate bid for freedom, and every year Francis caught him and beat him for his efforts. It was becoming a hellish sport, impossible to win, always ending in pain and hopelessness. Matthew didn't expect this year to be any different, but he still had to try.

Trailing his fingers along the glass, he looked out over the expansive grounds of his brothers' manor, his gaze lingering on the distant stone wall that encircled the grounds. He remembered running to it, gazing up hopelessly as he realized it was far too tall to climb. He remembered screaming as the guards found him, slamming him against the bars of the metal gate, the only thing keeping his from freedom. The gate over the driveway was the only way in or out of the manor. Matthew had never seen it open. Peering out the window, he tried to find the landmark that was the source of his constant torment. Following the road with his eyes, he gasped at what he saw.

The gate was open. Francis's guests must have arrived. This was his chance. For the last twenty something years, he had looked out the window and seen the closed gate. Francis had only taken his from his cell when they were all inside. Someone must have shown up late. Frantically, Matthew searched the room for a means of escape. Grabbing a soapstone carving from a shelf, he dashed back to the window. He was on the second floor, but he had no other means of escape and he wasn't about to let this chance go to waste. He would jump. He had broken bones before in some of Francis's more violent beatings. This would be nothing in comparison. Taking a deep breath, he smashed the sculpture against the window, smiling slightly as it shattered. Using the sculpture he hurriedly cleared a hole big enough for him to jump through. Francis would have heard the noise, and he was bound to have some sort of alarm system that registered the broken window. Closing his eyes, he ran at the window and jumped.


	2. Alfred

Matthew leaped out the window, and the world froze. Opening his soft violet eyes, he stared out at the grounds spread out before him. For a brief second, he felt like he was flying. The wind tousled his soft blond hair and he vaguely realized that he was falling. Looking down, he saw the ground rushing up to meet him. The breath was knocked from his lungs as he hit the frozen earth, the thick snow doing nothing to cushion his fall. Matthew heaved himself up, crying out as he felt something in his ankle crack. Groaning at the pain, he took off toward the gate.

His heart was pounding in his ears, his ankle sending stabs of white agony up his leg. He could hear the angry shouts of men behind him, their heavy boots grinding against the snowy gravel. He could hear his brother's frantic screams as he urged his men on, frantically trying to capture the blond. Matthew ignored him, focusing on the gate that was getting closer and closer. His throat was raw from his labored breathing and his legs were numb from the cold, but still he ran. He heard a shot, and it took a few seconds for him to realize that he had been hit in the leg. There was another crack as a gun was fired, Mathew instinctively ducked as he felt something fly by his left ear. His brother must be furious if he was aiming high. There would be no mercy today. The gate loomed ahead of him, and in an instant he was through. Tears streamed from his eyes, running down his face to mix with the blood of his various wounds. He had escaped the manor. A shout from behind reminded him that the chase was not over yet. Luckily Francis lived in the countryside, making his escape would be easier without police and citizens joining in on the chase. He sprinted blindly into the thick woodlands across the road, plunging through the brambles that grew densely between the trees.

The thick foliage was hindering his progress. He could feel the bloody gashes where the brambles had cut his legs or he had tripped over hidden rocks, and he distantly wondered if he was leaving a trail of blood for them to follow. Hearing more shots, he picked up his pace, driven purely by fear. He had come too far; he was not going back to that hellhole he grew up in. If he was caught now he would surely die; Francis had punished him for trying to escape in the past, beating him till he couldn't breathe, watching him fall unconscious and waiting patiently to resume the torture when he woke. Those times he hadn't even make it out the gate. He would be beaten to death in the most painful way Francis could think of if he were caught now. He was now deep into the woods and completely lost, running even though the sounds of his captors were growing distant. He finally stopped when the sun had set. He hadn't heard Francis' frantic shouts for a long time. Snow swirled in the air around him, landing in his hair, stinging as the soft flakes found the deep gashes that covered his thin body. He stumbled, crashing through bush and ivy in his crazed fear. He ran until he could run no more, and he collapsed, panting softly in the snow.

For a while his world was a mixture of misty colors swirling before his unfocused eyes. Only the still silence of the winter woods pressing in on his sensitive ears forced him to look up. There were no men chasing him. He was alone. He was free. At this realization the pain from his wounds came rushing back, a searing agony that consumed his body like a wildfire, mixed with the sharp cold from the ever-falling snow. He let out a muffled cry before it became too much and he succumbed to unconsciousness.

_He was in a dark room, possibly a cellar, huddled against the cold stone of the walls. His arms were chained behind his back, forcing him into a standing position. Barely conscious, he could feel only pain. They had dragged him here against his will, beating him into submission before forcing his wrists into the cold steel of the handcuffs. His blood splattered the walls, mixing with the dirt and rainwater that seeped in through the cracked ceiling…_

Matthew let out a feeble groan as he began to wake up. His eyes fluttered briefly before opening, his surroundings sliding into focus. He was in a small bedroom, with pine walls that gleamed golden in the sunlight that shone through an open window. There was a small table beside the bed. On it rested a generous cup of warm soup. Curiously, he picked up the cup, examining its contents.

He heard the door creak open. Startled, he dropped the soup and spun around, terror dancing in his eyes. In the doorway stood a young man. He looked to be the same age as Matthew. His blonde hair fanned around his face in no particular style, shimmering slightly in the evening sun. He walked over to Matthew, who stood pressed against the wall in terror. Reaching out, he cupped the boy's chin in his hands and looked him in the eyes, watching his expression carefully. "It's alright. You're safe." Matthew raised his head, staring into the clear blue eyes of his rescuer. He looked trustworthy; kind lines around his eyes gave him the appearance of a man who always smiled. He gave a brief nod before dropping his gaze and letting out a muttered "thanks."

The blond man turned motioned for him to sit back down on the bed. "My name's Alfred. I was hunting when I saw your tracks-it was hard not to, you seem to have run straight through a patch of brambles. I followed the trail until I found you lying unconscious in a snowdrift. You're very lucky you know; there are wolves in this forest that wouldn't hesitate to make you their next meal. Anyway, judging by your tracks, you appear to have been running from something. May I ask what it was?"

Matthew glanced at the man, whishing he could tell him everything that happened in his miserable life, ever since that fateful day when Francis had found him in the woods. He felt a pang in his chest as he realized that he could trust no one with his secrets, that anything he said would only be used against him. No doubt his captors were on his trail, he could only hope the snow had covered his tracks; although if what Alfred had said was true about him crashing through the forest, they could find him at any time. Focusing on the face in front of him, he gave a weary sigh and answered. "I was walking in the woods when I saw some of those wolves you mentioned. I ran, and ended up scaling a tree until I thought they were gone. Then I kept going. I figured the woods were no place to hang around in at night." Even to him, the story sounded weak. He didn't know much about the outside world, but that was no excuse. With a sigh he dropped his gaze and waited for Alfred to call him on his bluff.

To his surprise, Alfred didn't question his feeble lie. Looking once more into Matthew's wintery blue eyes, he began to draw back the covers on the bed. "Well, it sounds like you've been though quite a bit. You should rest; your injuries weren't severe, but sleep will do you good nonetheless." With that he stood and exited the room, leaving Matthew alone with his thoughts.

With a sigh, he crawled back into the bed, realizing for the first time how soft it was. He laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes, and sleep quickly overtook him.

_He strode into the cramped, dark room, casually surveying the scene spread out before him. The boy was where he had left him; chained to the wall and covered in his own blood. He strode quickly over to where he stood, cupping his chin in his hands and whispering quietly, describing all that he had done with relish. Tears trickled down the boy's face, leaving pale lines where the dirt and blood washed away. Reaching for the sheath behind him, the man drew a knife and began to trace it gently along his victim's collarbone, watching the thin line of blood that blossomed in its' wake. Tiring of this torture, he dropped the knife and traced the cuts with his fingers, scraping the nails along the boy's chest as he went. _

With a gasp, Matthew sat bolt upright in the bed, drenched in a cold sweat. Frantically glancing around the room, heart thudding in his chest, he searched for his captor. Gradually he realized his surroundings and began to calm down, lying back down to stare at the ceiling, lost in his thoughts. A while later, he heard a gentle knock at the door. He glanced up, watching as the door creaked open and Alfred stepped into the room. "Hey, you're finally up." Matthew stayed mute, watching as the man turned and sat on the edge of the bed, piercing him with his chocolate eyes. "You were having a nightmare."

Matthew shifted guiltily, staring at the floor before answering, "It's nothing… just a dream."

Alfred surveyed him a while longer before speaking, "You know, I had a rough time growing up…" Matthew glanced up, watching the man's face for any hint of deception. "I mean, it wasn't that bad, when you think about it, but it definitely wasn't your average childhood. My dad's an alcoholic, well, he was. He died a few years ago in a car crash."

For the first time, Matthew allowed some emotion to creep into his voice. "I'm sorry."

Alfred nodded briefly before continuing, "It didn't affect me much. My mother was just as bad. She was having multiple affairs and beat me whenever my dad came home from the bar. I ended up spending most of my time roaming the streets as an urchin. One day, I just decided I didn't want to come home. I scrounged out a living in the city for a while before escaping to the country. I found this cabin, it belonged to this guy, Ivan. He was probably the closest thing I had to a real dad. He taught me to hunt, cook, and survive without ever leaving these woods." He sighed suddenly, staring out the window to the snowy wonderland outside. "But he betrayed me, and I'll never forgive him for that." Seeing the look on Matthew's face, he continued defensively, "I didn't force him to leave or anything, I mean, it's not like I have any right to live here. One day he just left."

"What made him leave?" Matthew asked timidly.

Alfred's face turned dark as he replied, "We disagreed on a few affairs, it's nothing you need to worry about." Sighing, he got up and headed for the door. "Don't worry about it Matthew, it's not like you'll see him anyway. And if you do, I'll be there to protect you. After all," he said with a grin, "I'm the hero."

Matthew smiled to himself as he pulled the covers up to his chin, letting his eyes flutter closed. Maybe Francis would forget about him, and he could live in this cabin with Alfred. Maybe things would be okay.


	3. Out of the Frying pan

Matthew awoke to the scent of hamburgers. Licking his lips, he rolled out of bed and crept nervously into the kitchen, looking for the source of the delicious smell. He tip-toed toward the table, vaguely wondering where Alfred was. Suddenly, a large shape ploughed into him, tackling him to the ground. "Mattie!" Alfred cried, hugging Matthew tightly and ignoring his protesting gasps. "I know you were kind of upset yesterday so I made us burgers!"

Groaning in pain, Matthew wriggled out of Alfred's grasp, breathing deeply as he did so. That American was stronger than he looked. "It's early morning, why did you cook hamburgers?" He inquired timidly, almost regretting asking. Noticing Alfred's hurt look, he smiled and added, "Not that I'm complaining, I'm starving!"

Alfred pretended to pout, picking himself up and walking to the kitchen table. "Are you saying you don't want the hamburger I made for you? 'Cause you know, I'll gladly eat it."

Matthew sprung up, wincing at the pain in his ankle. He hadn't noticed when he was in bed, but it was still tender. Suddenly worried that the loud blond would carry out his threat, Matthew limped to the table, exclaiming, "Hands off, I haven't eaten like this in forever!" Alfred set a large plate of burgers in the middle of the table, taking one for himself and motioning for Matthew to do the same.

Chuckling, Matthew watched as Alfred devoured his meal. Hungrily, Matthew bit into his own burger, not knowing what to expect. He hadn't had food like this before, as Francis rarely fed him, and when he did it had been mostly soup. He found he liked the taste, but not nearly as much as Alfred did. Smiling slightly, Matthew wondered if the American ate anything other than burgers. He wasn't fat and he seemed to be in good shape, but the sheer amount of junk he consumed made this almost impossible to believe.

After breakfast, Matthew showered and checked his ankle, prodding the swollen flesh and wincing occasionally. It didn't appear to be broken, but it was a faint purple colour and it hurt to put any pressure on it. Trailing his fingers up his leg, he found that most of his cuts had been bandaged and washed. His fingers gently traced what appeared to be a bullet wound. Closing his eyes, Matthew thought back to his escape. Francis shouting, running frantically across the grounds in the wake of his men, and giving the order to shoot. He shivered; that had without a doubt been one of the most terrifying experiences of his life. How could Francis shoot at him? Didn't he realize that if Matthew died, he would have no one to torture, and therefore no means of entertaining his guests at his many lavish parties? Matthew smirked to himself, Francis had tortured him for twenty years before ordering his death, and yet Matthew alive and free, living in a cabin with his newfound friend. Francis's guests would be really impressed, he thought sarcastically. Matthew hadn't even remembered his bullet wound until now; Alfred had done a good job of bandaging it. Upon closer examination, Matthew found that the bullet had merely grazed his calf, tearing the muscle but not causing any permanent damage. Borrowing a tenser bandage from Alfred, Matthew gently wrapped his swollen ankle before changing into some of Alfred's old clothes.

Glancing out the window, Matthew's thoughts drifted to the events leading up to his life in the cabin. He saw the thick blanket of snow that covered the ground and felt hope rising in his chest. Maybe the snow was deep enough to cover his tracks. Maybe Francis would lose interest in him and he could continue living here with Alfred. Maybe he wasn't worth the effort, and Francis would call off the search. Maybe he would be happy, in time. It all seemed too good to be true. Matthew decided that he had to see for himself. If his tracks were still visible, Francis would be on his way, destroying anything and anyone who got in his way. But if the snow hid his trail, he could be free. He strode out into the main room of the cabin, passing Alfred in his haste. "Hey, what are you doing? You should be in bed, or watching movies with me or something. You're supposed to be injured. Where are you going?" He asked, jumping up from where he had been lying on the couch.

Rushing to the closet, Matthew pulled out a pair of heavy winter boots and a thick ski jacket, muttering a quick goodbye to a very confused Alfred.

.oOo.

Panting slightly, Matthew trudged out into the woods, trying to find any traces of his frantic escape. The woods seemed much bigger in the daylight, and although the thick canopy blocked out most of the light, small patches of bright sunlight shone through the gaps in the trees, creating yellow speckled patterns on the fresh snow. Kicking up snow, Matthew wandered deeper into the woods, oblivious as to where he was headed. As far as he was concerned, he was bound to run into his tracks eventually, and he could always follow his own fresh tacks if he got lost. After an hour of hiking through the snow, he stopped for a break. Looking around, he realized he was in a much deeper part of the forest. The trees were all large conifers, plunging the ground ahead of him into semi-darkness. Suddenly afraid, Matthew recalled the wolves Alfred had mentioned earlier. He definitely would have remembered passing through here. Turning, he made to head back the way he came, freezing when he heard a low snarl from the darkness behind him.

Slowly, Matthew turned around, afraid of what he might see. Stifling a scream, he looked into a pair of evil yellow eyes. Not more than a meter away from him crouched a massive wolf, snarling softly. Its jaws were enormous; saliva dripped from its massive canines as the wolf continued to stare at the young Canadian.

Matthew's mind went blank at the sight of the wolf. Panicking, he let out a scream frantically backpedaling away from it. The wolf followed his every move, silently padding through the snow, following at a distance. Matthew couldn't understand. Why wasn't he dead yet? Why was the wolf simply following him instead of ripping him to shreds? After several seconds of agonized thinking, the answer came to him: Wolves hunt in packs. As if the wolf could read his thoughts, it let out a short growl, fixing its gaze on something behind the young blond. Matthew froze as another growl came from behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw three other wolves making their way towards him, their nimble bodies slipping through the trees and over the snow without a sound, save for their hungry panting,

Trembling, Matthew resigned himself to the fact that he was going to die. Really, it wasn't a bad way to go. Maybe the wolves would be kind enough to bit his neck first, maybe snap it if he was lucky. Francis had beat him to the brink of death many times in his past; being mauled by wolves almost sounded nice in comparison. Matthew looked at the wolves, staring the largest of the pack in the eyes. He had made it this far; it seemed a waste to give up now. He should be trying harder, but really, there was no point. The wolves could definitely outrun him, and he had no weapons to fight them off with. He would just tire himself out and make the situation more miserable than it had to be. Almost laughing to himself, he contemplated this statement. He really wasn't much of a fighter; that was for sure. Escaping Francis had been one thing; that had been relatively easy. A sudden jump and a quick sprint and he was free. But fighting a group of wolves? That was too much. He really wasn't cut out for this much violence on a regular basis. With a sigh, he rolled his head back, pushing the hair away from his exposed neck. Closing his eyes, he waited for the end.

.oOo.

Cliffhanger (Kind of)! So I'm going to be introducing Ivan soon, because people have been wondering where the hell he is.  
Thanks for the reviews and comments, they're greatly appreciated. :)


	4. Ivan

With a sigh, he rolled his head back, pushing the hair away from his exposed neck. Closing his eyes, he waited for the end.

A shot echoed through the woods. Cracking open an eye, Matthew took in the scene before him. The big wolf; the one who was surely about to clamp its' jaws into his exposed throat, was lying dead at his feet, blood seeping from a bullet wound in it's head. Turning at the sound of footsteps crunching through the trees, he watched as the remaining wolves slunk back through the trees, wary of this new development.

Matthew stared as a large man thundered into the clearing, carrying a rather fearsome looking rifle in one hand and a bottle of vodka in another. Glancing briefly at the stunned Matthew, the large man fired a few shots off through the trees, swearing profusely under his breath. Turning, he faced the blond, who responded by cowering against a nearby tree. "Stupid boy, why are you running about in these woods unprotected?"

Matthew opened his mouth to speak; then closed it again, still in apparent shock. The large man towered in front of him, his broad chest covered by a thick winter jacket. Thick hunting boots adorned his feet, and a small white scarf was draped haphazardly around his neck. Glancing up to his face, Matthew realized that his hair was a light blond, almost white, and his eyes were a beautiful purple, though they currently radiated annoyance and hatred. Snapping out of his daze, Matthew muttered, "I was…going for a walk. I didn't realize how dense the forest got until it was too late. I'm sorry, it was a really stupid thing to do."

Nodding curtly, the man replied, "Da. What is your name? Where did you come from?" His face grew dark as an angry scowl blossomed across his face. "You are not of that arrogant Frenchman's house, da?"

Swallowing nervously, Matthew whispered, "Non, er, No. I'm Matthew, and I'm staying at a cabin somewhere around here." Catching the disbelieving look the man gave him, he remembered that he and Francis looked alike; their blonde hair and heart-shaped faces were almost identical from a distance. It was only when you looked at them up close that one noticed the differences between them. Matthew's hair was cut shorter than Francis's, his eyes were violet, and his frame, although lean, consisted almost entirely of tones muscle; the product of endless boredom in the confines of his cell. Exercising in the hopes of someday overpowering his brother was one of the only things that had kept him from losing his sanity. His thick coat masked his figure, easily hiding any muscle he had. To the casual observer, he could be easily mistaken for his tormentor. Remembering that the large man didn't believe him and recalling the anger he had showed when Francis was mentioned, Matthew hurriedly amended his statement. "Jacques, that man, he is my brother. But he-"

Matthew gasped as the man wrapped a massive hand around his throat, slamming him into a tree and cutting off his air supply. The large man looked murderous; one look into his eyes told Matthew that he meant to kill him. Matthew desperately, clawed at his throat, feeling more lightheaded by the second. "Non," he choked out, his eyes watering profusely, regretting ever mentioning his brother. "I-I escaped." Black spots began to cloud his vision as he felt his arms drop weakly to his sides. "Please," he whispered, before his world went black.

.oOo.

Ivan released his hold on the young blond, catching his limp form before it could drop to the cold ground. He didn't know why he had stopped. He wanted to kill him; anyone who associated with the arrogant French bastard up the road deserved to die; and yet something had kept him from finishing the deed. With a sigh, he checked the unconscious man's pulse. Finding it to be steady, he draped Matthew's limp body over his shoulder, and began carrying him to a lighter part of the woods. He would make a fire, then wait for his prisoner to wake up. Then, he could ask him how he really came to the forest, forcing the truth from him by any means necessary. Yes, that was what he'd do. Ivan trudged slightly faster through the snow, eagerly awaiting the moment his new toy would awake.

...To be continued

Sorry about not updating very quickly, and for this incredibly short travesty of a chapter. I'm going to try to update every weekend, but hopefully I'll squeeze in a chapter more than once a week. Once again, sorry for how short this is! Your reviews etc are all greatly appreciated. If you see a flaw in my writing, PLEASE POINT IT OUT. I want to get better at this.  
Thank you for reading :)


	5. Interrogations

Matthew groaned slightly, slowly realizing his surroundings. He could smell smoke and hear the crackling of a fire nearby. His eyes fluttered open and he listed his head weakly, taking in his surroundings. He was tied to a large fir tree; his wrists bound uncomfortably behind his back. Thankfully he was sitting down; he didn't think his legs could support much weight yet. The large man who had attacked him sat across from him, busily attending to the fire. Every few seconds he would glance up at Matthew, and upon realizing that he was coherent enough to understand his situation, turn back to the fire, waiting for him to make the first attempts at conversation.

Eventually, Matthew tired of the man's antics and tried to speak, the words coming out as a mere whisper. "Um, excuse me," Matthew mentally cursed; he hadn't meant to sound so weak. Trying again, he straightened his back and attempted to sound more intimidating. He was a grown man, time to act like it. Maybe he could talk some reason into the man who had previously tried to kill him. "Um, d-do you mind untying me?" He knew it sounded like a plea more than a peacemaking attempt, and regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

Grinning evilly, the large man stepped around the fire, making his way to his captive. Never breaking eye contact, he squatted in front of him, cupping his chin with one mammoth hand before speaking, "You are Matvey, da?" Taking Matthew's scared whimper as an affirmative, he continued, "You are the brother of the Frenchman. You admitted this before you so rudely fell unconscious. He has done me great wrong, and even after this he continued to mock me on the few occasions we saw each other. Even now, he torments me, sending his men into the forest to scare off the game with their clumsy tracking skills. I do not know what he is after, or why he comes to my domain after years of separation, but I have a feeling you play a role in this, and I think you'll want to tell me what it is." Pausing briefly, he drew a hunting knife from his belt. Placing it blade-first beside the fire's base, he continued, "If you have anything to share, now would be the time".

Matthew began shaking violently, not wanting to think about what the man was going to do with the knife. Frantically, he forced the words from his throat, praying that the man would realize he was telling the truth. "F-Francis is my brother. He kept me locked in his cellar for most of my life, but I escaped a few days ago. I ran through the woods and collapsed, and a man named Alfred rescued me. I'm staying at his cabin until I can find a way out of this mess. I went looking for any traces of Francis's men this morning, and I got lost. Then the wolves attacked, and you came in and saved me." Matthew was almost hysterical by the end of his story, staring directly into the man's eyes, praying that he would believe him, tears threatening to fall down his face.

Ivan studied him for several agonizing seconds before a seeming to make up his mind. "You lie."

Matthew could only stare in horror as the man reached into the fire and pulled out the knife, apparently unaffected by the intense heat. Bleakly, he wondered if this crazed man tortured people a lot; it certainly seemed like he knew what he was doing. The man spoke again, softly, as though apologizing for what he was about to do. "I am Ivan. These woods are my home. I will protect my domain, and everything in it (Matthew noticed he looked almost sad for a fleeting second), because it is my duty to keep Francis and his treachery from corrupting my life any more than he already has. You will tell me the truth, knowing that I will not rest until I have learned everything." Ignoring Matthew's protests, he gently rolled up his captive's sleeves and pant legs, exposing his flesh to the biting cold. Looking once more into Matthew's brilliant violet eyes, he pressed the flat of the knife to Matthew's calf, watching his face as he screamed in agony. After several seconds he pulled the blade away, leaving a shining red welt in Matthew's skin. Once again, he demanded that the Canadian explain his presence in the forest. When Matthew repeated his answer, he smiled grimly before pressing the blade to his other calf, leaving an identical mark.

The torture went on until Matthew had three burn marks on each of his legs. Ivan seemed to have realized that his method wasn't working, and had resorted to staring at the shaking Canadian, wondering what to do with him. Surprisingly, he had suffered through the torture without breaking down. His screams echoed through the forest, but when the knife was withdrawn Ivan had been surprised each time to find the Canadian scared and shaking, but certainly not as distressed as most would be in his situation. Pondering this, Ivan began to wonder if maybe the he had been telling the truth. That would certainly explain Francis's troops' sudden appearance in his domain, but Ivan wasn't quite ready to take the Canadian's word quite yet. Sighing, Ivan looked into Matthew's eyes once more. "Matvey, are you telling the truth?"

Matthew shakily replied, "O-Oui. Yes."

Ivan looked away, not sure of what to do. He wanted to believe the Canadian, but something was holding him back. He had learned not to trust people, bad things happened whenever he let kindness-the infernal weakness he so violently despised-enter his heart. Without looking at him, he picked up his knife from where he had dropped it after his last attempt at interrogating his captive. Wiping the now cold blade on his sleeve, he placed it at Matthew's throat. "Matvey, you are going to die. You must tell me the truth."

Matthew shivered as he felt the blade press against the sensitive skin of his neck. His mind racing, he tried to list his options. He could tell Ivan that he was one of Francis's men, which would most likely lead to a slow and painful demise if Ivan's current actions were indication of what he was capable of, or he could stick to his story and hope Iva would believe him. Matthew mentally cursed, his options both stunk. Deciding to go the honest route and hope for the best, he lifted his chin and stared into Ivan's eyes, hoping his temporary show of courage would mask the terror that was slowly pooling in his stomach. "Ivan, I am telling the truth. I hate Francis just as much as you do, and I meant no harm by coming into these woods." Glancing down at the blade still resting against his throat, he added, "Trust me, please."

Ivan's grip on the knife tightened, indecision dancing in his eyes. He was pulled from his thoughts by a sharp noise, a tree branch snapping somewhere close by. Pulling the knife from Matthew's throat, Ivan grabbed his gun, peering anxiously into the trees. Cursing under his breath, he motioned for the Canadian to stay quiet. Matthew complied, too scared to do anything else at the moment.

Through the trees Ivan could see several black-clad figures stumbling through the snow. There appeared to be about six of them, all heavily armed and heading in their direction. Thankfully Ivan had chosen to build the fire in a small gulley between two large snowdrifts; had he not done so they would certainly have been exposed. Softly, Ivan crept over to fire, dousing the flames with armloads of snow. Within seconds the blaze was gone, buried underneath a small mound of fresh snow. Ivan shouldered his rifle and crept back to Matthew, opening the Canadian's jacket to cut two strips of cloth off of his shirt. Matthew started questioningly, wondering what Ivan was planning. He soon found out, as Ivan fashioned a basic gag, forcing it into Matthew's head before tying it around his head. Matthew looked as if he'd scream, an expression that was not lost on Ivan as he muttered softly, "for the pain."

Matthew didn't have time to ponder this statement as he was released from his bonds, Ivan's nimble fingers working quickly to undo the knots that bound him to the tree. He was slung over the man's shoulder as though he weighed nothing, and before Matthew could think to protest, Ivan started running.

Matthew found out the purpose of the gag very quickly. Every time Ivan had to climb over a large snowdrift or step over a buried log, Matthew's legs would rub roughly against Ivan's back, leading the dull pain from his burns to grow to a throbbing agony. Soon he couldn't help but groan in pain; thankful that the gag would muffle the noises. The last thing he wanted was for his weakness to expose their position.

Gradually, the sounds of Francis's men died, to be replaced with the calming sound of wind in the snow-covered trees. Ivan kept up his pace, seemingly unbothered by Matthew's weight on his shoulders.

Finally, the two came to a small cabin situated in a thick grove of pine trees, similar to Alfred's. The cabin was made of large logs, and was painted a dark shade of gray with white trim. It was one storey high and appeared to blend in with the surrounding woods. From a distance it appeared to be a basic one room cabin, but when they got closer Matthew realized that it was actually quite modern; it had a small porch bordered by a white rail, with a small set of steps leading up to the door. Its front wall had several large windows framed with white trim, standing out starkly against the dark wooden walls. The roof sloped upwards and came to a small peak, presumably to keep snow from weighing down the supports, and a small wreath of pine boughs decorated the door. The new snow sparkled in the light that streamed through the trees, gently illuminating the clearing around the cabin. Matthew couldn't help but smile; it looked like a scene from a Christmas card.

Reaching the porch, Ivan dropped Matthew from his shoulders, watching as he fell awkwardly to the wooden floor. Rolling his eyes, he waited for the Canadian to cautiously untie the gag, massaging his aching jaw as he did so. Ivan scooped a handful of snow from the banister and pressed it to one of Matthew's more prominent burns, watching as the Canadian hissed in pain. He couldn't help the feeling of power that came over him; he loved seeing his victims scream, their faces contorted in agony. Oh, he'd love to show this pathetic boy what he was truly capable of, to watch his face contort in never-ending agony as he was destroyed from the inside out… but he couldn't. Not while there was still a chance that he was innocent. He was not a killer.

Ivan picked the Canadian up by the collar of his jacket, dragging him inside. He was barely two feet across the threshold when a warm body pressed up against him, worried blue eyes looking up at him. "Ivan, what happened? Who is he? Why is he hurt? Is he one of Francis's men?" Her face grew dark at her last question, and she shifted her gaze to Matthew, watching as he struggled weakly in Ivan's grasp.

"I'm not sure. He was in the woods when I found him, but he lacks the skill and training that distinguish Francis' men. I don't know why he's here, but don't worry, I'll find out." With that parting comment, he dragged Matthew into the main room, unceremoniously lifting him onto the large, wooden, kitchen table. "He wouldn't admit to anything when I first questioned him. We should get these wounds bandaged. Grab the first aid supplies please, Katyusha." The blond haired girl rushed from the room, returning seconds later with a heavy black duffel bag. She traced Matthew's burns with her fingers, glancing at Ivan in understanding. Matthew noticed that she looked almost sad, her kind blue eyes taking in the scene before her with a resigned sadness.

"You shouldn't hurt them so much." Her voice came out as a mere whisper.

Matthew spoke up, "Don't worry, I'm fine. They're not as bad as they look." His eyes rested on his still-throbbing burns before weakly smiling at the girl. He didn't know what was going on, but he wasn't about to waste the opportunity to gain the trust of his captors. He almost immediately regretted his decision, seeing the look of anger and confusion on Ivan's face. Obviously he hadn't expected the Canadian to participate in the conversation, much less defend the one who had so willingly tortured him less than an hour ago.

Walking to the sink, he rinsed a cloth in cold water before pressing it to one of the burns. Matthew's face was coated in a thin layer of sweat. The pain wasn't unbearable by any means, but the cold in his heated flesh still stung. Still, the fact that Ivan was at least attempting to bandage his wounds meant something, so he remained still without complaint. After several tense minutes of silence, he tried to make conversation. "So, um, the snow is really beautiful this time of year, eh."

Katyusha smiled weakly, nodding in response. "Yes, it always beings joy to Ivan and I. The land looks so pretty in the winter."

Glaring at Matthew, Ivan pressed a little harder than necessary on the wound, cueing him to keep his mouth shut. If he and Katyusha bonded, it would make the interrogations much harder. He still didn't trust the Canadian; he could sense that he was hiding something.

Matthew, ignoring Ivan's unspoken message, tried again to speak to Katyusha. The girl seemed nice enough, and was evidently close to Ivan. The two acted like a family. If he could gain her trust, Ivan would have no choice than to let him go. Alfred was probably worried, and Matthew felt a pang of regret at his hurried exit that morning. He had been incredibly rude; something that only dawned upon him when it was too late. Focusing again on Katyusha, he opened his mouth to speak, only to let out a groan of pain, feeling Ivan press roughly on his burn, masking his actions with the wet cloth in his hand. Closing his mouth, he expected Ivan to stop, groaning again when he increased the pressure. Katyusha was still oblivious, fretting about and whispering that Ivan was doing his best and that the pain would stop soon.

Ivan smirked as he watched the Canadian writhe on the table in obvious pain. That should teach him for trying to speak with his sister. Unlike Katyusha, Ivan wasn't at all fooled by Matthew's act. He knew that Matthew was trying to escape; no amount of false happiness could mask that. The boy was too open with his emotions, too easily scared and hurt. Manipulating his emotions was almost too easy; Ivan secretly hoped that there was more to him than this scared, weak persona. He liked it when they fought. All the same, he couldn't have Matthew distressing his sister any more; his plan was obviously not having the intended effect. Katyusha was on the verge of tears, wondering why he was in so much pain, caring for him like an anxious mother. Ivan sighed, rummaging around in the medicine bag with his free hand while inflicting various degrees of pressure on Matthew's wounds, alternating between legs to keep the pain from dulling. Pulling out a small syringe, he dragged his nails along a burn, hearing a particularly loud scream from beneath him. Luckily he had decided to burn him instead of cutting; these marks were proving to be quite useful.

Glancing at Katyusha, he feigned concern as he spoke. "He's clearly in pain, we should sedate him while we treat his injuries." Katyusha nodded, ignoring Matthew's weak protests. Holding him down, she watched as Ivan plunged the needle into Matthew's thigh, watching as his struggles grew weaker until his eyes fluttered shut.

Withdrawing the needle, Ivan looked down at the still form on the table. Matthew looked almost peaceful. His hair fanned around his face, his expression blank. A few loose strands rose and fell with each breath. His unconscious ignorance seemed to spread; soon Ivan found himself calming, a feeling of peace and contentment settling on his chest. He was interrupted from his thoughts when Katyusha spoke, her opinions mirroring his own. "He's kind of pretty like that." Ivan nodded silently, still transfixed. She turned to face him, her blue eyes staring pleadingly at his. "Oh Ivan, he seemed so nice. I really hope he's not with Francis."

Ivan nodded again, busying himself with the medical supplies. Secretly he found himself agreeing with his sister. He hoped to too.

.oOo.

Yay, this one's not as short, although it's not really all that interesting. I apologise for the random events and mood swings the characters go through in this story, as well as my frequent use of semi-colons. I can't help it! I have no plan, this is one of those "write things and see what happens" stories, so please don't be too upset when suddenly Ivan's showing compassion and Matthew's wimpy and Katyusha's not just a background character. The words don't flow too well, clearly.  
Anyway, thanks for reading, if you see a flaw (or something you liked, I guess) tell me! I'm trying to fix things.  
Have an awesome day :)


	6. Not Enemies?

Sorry for not updating for a while, I had a bunch of tournaments and tests and other random crap. I don't really know where this story is going, I'm thinking of taking a break (Well, a bigger break) and writing a few oneshots, or maybe something new. Idk. Aha, maybe a lemon, just to see if I can. Nah, I'd die halfway through. I hope you like it! Review if you see anything you want changed, (horrific spelling errors, grammar fails, lack of plot) and I'll see what I can do.

Have a nice weekend. :)

.oOo.

Matthew woke in a soft bed lined with furs. Blearily, he rubbed his eyes, groaning slightly at the dull ache in his legs. He tried and failed to form coherent thoughts, each time he attempted to focus the haze in his tired brain would pull him back to a state of painful numbness. His head was pounding and his throat felt drier than the old Saskatchewan dustbowls, and for a while there was nothing he could do but lie still, waiting for the pain to lessen. Finally the pounding in his head receded enough for him to focus on his injuries. He rolled onto his side, wincing at the sharp pain that shot up his spine. Blearily, he tried to take stock of his wounds, forcing his leaden arms to lift the furs, revealing the neat bandages on his calves. So Ivan hadn't tortured him; that was an interesting development.

He was in the same clothes he wore yesterday, with the cuffs on his pants and shirt still rolled from Ivan's previous interrogation. Thinking hard, Matthew forced himself to remember the events leading up to his waking. He had been in the woods with Ivan, and something had happened. Francis, he was there, wasn't he? No, wait, his men had been there on his orders. Ivan had tortured him, then the men had showed up and he was taken to this cabin. Ivan had helped him? He started treating his wounds, then Matthew had started taking to a girl and something had happened. Ivan injected him with something? Everything was so blurry. He had trouble recalling any details about his experience in the cabin. Clearly, Ivan had given him some form of amnesiac. What was he hiding? Who was the girl in the kitchen?

Seeking answers, he timidly glanced around the room, taking in his surroundings. He was in a small bedroom; the walls bare save for a few bookshelves. There was one window situated directly above the bed from which sunlight streamed, illuminating tiny dust particles that floated in the air. There was a door directly across from the window, and although it was shut tightly, Matthew could hear snippets of conversation filtering in through the crack at its' base.

In the kitchen, Ivan and Katyusha were arguing.

"We can't trust him." Ivan's' deep voice echoed through the cabin.

Matthew pressed his ear to the door, eyes widening when he heard Katyusha's response. "Brother, we don't exactly have a choice. He's injured and in our care. Even you can't be cold enough to turn him away."

"He's the brother of the Frenchman! For all we know, this could be another of his games."

"The boy was injured, Ivan. Even Francis wouldn't do that to one of his own."

"Apparently he would. Matthew said he was tortured and he escaped from his manor a few days ago."

Katyusha sighed, "Brother, please listen. I want to trust him."

Matthew could barely make out a muffled grunt as Ivan's footsteps grew louder. Backing away from the door, he instinctively looked to the window, wondering if he could break the glass and escape before Ivan reached the door. Hearing the footsteps pause outside his room, Matthew threw himself into the bed, drawing the blankets around his thin frame and feigning sleep.

Ivan threw open the door, cold red eyes taking in the blond on the bed. Chuckling darkly, he sat on the end. Matvey could be so ignorant. Ivan could see the uneven rise and fall of Matthew's chest as he struggled to keep still, his body betraying him as he trembled in fear. He watched the boy for a while, smiling when he realized that Matthew thought he believed he was asleep. The boy seemed to be fighting back a small victory smirk. Not wanting the boy to think him stupid, he roughly shook his shoulder, flipping him over so that startled violet eyes stared up at his face.

"Matvey, I am not stupid. Do not try that again, or I will have to punish you."

Matthew shivered, not wanting to find out what form of punishment Ivan had in mind. Internally signing, he looked to Ivan, hoping to find out more about why Ivan hated Francis, and more importantly, what Ivan had done to him while he was unconscious. "W-what happened?"

"You passed out."

"No kidding." Matthew thought to himself. He couldn't think of a response to that, so he motioned to his legs and muttered a quick thank you. He made to get out of bed, but Ivan pushed him firmly into the mattress, a childish smirk crossing his face. Matthew didn't like that look. Panic flashing into his eyes, Matthew tried again to get up, only to be pushed down once more. After a few minutes of frantic writhing and scratching, Matthew calmed down, resigned to his fate.

"Matvey gives up too easily, da?" Ivan leered. Matthew gave no response, meeting his gaze steadily. "It's too bad," Ivan continued, "that you won't tell the truth. My sister was really starting to like you. But seeing as you continue to tell your feeble lies, I have no choice to resort to other means of making you talk."

Matthew did not like the sound of that. "I've told you," he croaked, his throat suddenly becoming dry, "I escaped from Francis. I found Alfred in the woods, and he took care of me. I'm telling the truth, why can't you see that?"

Ivan chuckled darkly, releasing Matthew to cross the room, stopping at a chest of drawers. Matthew craned his neck, trying to see what Ivan was doing, but his large figure screened his actions from Matthew's view. Matthew, taking the opportunity to crawl out of bed, crept slowly toward the door. If he had a good head start, he might be able to outrun Ivan and find his way back to Alfred's cabin. He was almost at the door when he heard a chuckle. "You're not escaping, Matvey."

Matthew sprinted at the door, stumbling and falling as something hard collided with his side. Looking up angrily, he saw Ivan leaning casually against the doorframe. Clearly his size did nothing to hinder his movements; he was much faster than he looked. A set of handcuffs was draped across one wrist.

Wincing, he Matthew got to his feet, gingerly rubbing the spot where Ivan had hit him. He had tried being polite, he'd explained his situation to the best of his ability, and this was how he was treated? He'd had enough. "Just let me go," he growled. "I'll leave and I won't come back. You can go off like the maniac you are and deal with Francis however you like; trust me, I won't stop you. Just let me go, before I fucking break your face, eh?" His hands curled into fists as he practically spat the last sentence.

Ivan watched impassively, raising an eyebrow. "Matvey is very amusing," he muttered, a small smirk crossing his face, "but he is not very smart if he thinks he can fight a Russian and win."

Matthew screamed and charged, sprinting toward the door, willing to do anything to escape. He saw Ivan's eyebrow rise even higher, if it was possible, an incredulous look plastering his face. And then he saw the cold determination rise behind Ivan's eyes, and jumped to the side as a large fist sailed past his ear. Recovering quickly, Matthew countered, striking the Russian across the face before darting back, hoping to draw his opponent away from the door.

Ivan spat angrily, glaring at Matthew. "That was a very stupid thing to do, Matvey." Charging at the younger man, he faked a punch to his abdomen while pulling the handcuffs from his shoulder. Matthew's eyes widened as he understood the Russian's plan, and he spun away, darting toward the door. Ivan kicked out, catching the Canadian in the ribs and sending him flying into the wall. Matthew groaned as his head smacked against the hard wood, starbursts of pain exploding in front of his eyes. Rolling quickly to the side, Matthew rushed at the door again, ducking Ivan's uppercut and hitting him hard in the stomach before twirling behind the large man, and running toward the door.

Ivan, realizing that his prey was getting away, lunged after him, grabbing a thin wrist and snapping on a handcuff. Growling, Matthew pulled against him, panic creeping up his spine as he realized his efforts were in vain. Screaming in frustration, Matthew kicked and punched, pummeling the Russian with everything he had. Sadly, it wasn't enough. Ivan dragged him over to the bed, handcuffing his wrists to the headboard.

Panting, Matthew started up at his captor, expecting the worst. He wouldn't cry; he was tired of being weak. He survived years of Francis's torture, and he could certainly handle anything Ivan threw at him. Glaring, he waited for Ivan to speak.

To his surprise, Ivan began to chuckle. Soon, the chuckles grew to hearty laughs, reverberating off of the wooden walls and echoing in Matthew's ears. "You put up a good fight, Matvey. You should stand up for yourself more often." Seeing Matthew's incredulous face, he continued. "You lack the power that my enemies possess, and they lack your speed. Also, Francis's men would never be so gentle. You waited till I was practically raping you before you truly tried to escape, and even then you were unwilling to kill me." He stopped briefly, surveying Matthew's face. Matthew seemed like he was going to object, so he continued, "Oh, I know you think you fought hard, but I could see it in your eyes, you could not kill me." Matthew glared at him, trying to ignore the feeling of shame that welled up in his stomach, confirming Ivan's statement. "You will stay with me," Ivan continued, "As it is much too dangerous for you to wander through the woods alone. I doubt you would be able to find your way back to Alfred's cabin, and even if you knew the way, the chance of Ivan's men finding you is too great. You will stay with me until I say, and then you may leave."

Matthew sighed, Ivan's words made sense. It wouldn't be wise to wander through the woods again, and anything was better than being captured by Francis's men. At least Ivan didn't want to kill him anymore. "Alright," he said, steady violet eyes meeting Ivan's, "I'll stay, but you have to treat me like an equal. No more of this prisoner crap."

Ivan cackled, pressing his palm down on Matthew's chest, watching as the smaller man struggled to breathe. "Matvey, just because you are no longer an enemy, that does not make you a friend." His eyes glittered dangerously as he pressed harder, watching the younger man wince in pain. "You are still my guest, and you will do as I say if you wish to remain relatively unharmed."

Matthew realized that this was about as good as things would get, at least for the time being. "Fine." He growled, hating Ivan's triumphant smirk.

"Good." Un-cuffing Matthew's hands, Ivan shoved him roughly off of the bed. "Now, go make me breakfast."


	7. Construction

Sorry for not updating for over a month, school is busy (as per usual) so I don't have much time to write. On top of that, I really wasn't feeling the story. At all. it was unofficially dead to me for a while, until this morning, when I decided that I should probably give it another shot. I'm going to try to write something at least every two weeks.

.oOo.

It had been several weeks since Matthew had been brought to Ivan's cabin. Though his first few days with the angry Russian had been awkward, their relationship had progressed quickly and soon Matthew found could call Ivan a friend. The feeling of having a friend was new to Matthew. The word felt almost foreign on his tongue. All his life he had been trapped in a cold cellar at the mercy of his twisted brother. More often than not, any signs of affection directed toward him led to cruel punishment. That wasn't to say Ivan was the epitome of kindness, no he was far from it. But he no longer glowered at Matthew as he spoke with Katyusha, and he treated Matthew almost as an equal, though the latter was mainly because Katyusha would protest if she saw any signs of Ivan reverting back to his 'torture first think later' mindset. The change from prisoner to friend had been gradual and painful for both of them, namely Matthew as Ivan still had the tendency to become suspicious of the Canadian should the conversation become too personal, but Matthew knew that for all the pain their friendship had caused him, it had been worth it.

Matthew glanced out the cabin window, watching as the snow softly fell in the clearing. He loved the winter, the feeling of peace and tranquillity that fell upon the forest as it was covered in a thick blanket of snow. Sure, there weren't any flowers or bright bird songs to wake him in the morning, and no strong sunshine to light up the cabin, but the quiet beauty of the falling snow more than made up for these details. Of course, Ivan was of a different opinion.

Matthew flinched as the door to his room was flung open. Ivan stood in the door frame, holding two shovels and a toolbox. "Hurry up. We have much to do, da? Come outside in 5 minutes, you will not like what happens if you are late." With that, he shut the door, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hall. Sighing, Matthew pulled on a thick pair of boots, throwing off the tee-shirt that he had borrowed in favour of a thick sweater. Ivan must have been in a bad mood if he was working at this hour. It was barely eight in the morning and he was already in a horrible mood. Knowing Ivan, he had spent the previous night drinking and now Matthew was going to have to entertain the Russian during his hangover. Grabbing his coat and a pair of durable work gloves, he headed out the front door in search of Ivan and today's task.

Ivan stood in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by long, thick logs and a large plastic tarp. Wooden stakes littered the clearing, marking out a large rectangle in the frozen dirt. Matthew vaguely wondered how Ivan had managed to drive the stakes into the frozen ground, but decided not to comment. Ivan began to speak, breaking Matthew out of his reverie. "Comrade Matvey, you are on time. This is good, as you will have the most important job in today's project." Ivan grinned childishly at Matthew's frown before continuing, "You get to carry the water from the river to the clearing! Thankfully, the rapids have not yet frozen, so you should be able to get the water without having to cut a hole in the ice. Aren't you lucky?" Matthew groaned. Whatever they were building, it had better not involve a lot of water. The river was quite a ways away and his back still hurt from the previous day's task, in which Ivan had forced him to shovel the entire clearing without providing a reason for doing so. "Don't worry Matvey, you don't have to start yet! You must first help me make the frame!" Ivan exclaimed gleefully, enjoying Matthew's obvious discomfort.

"If you don't mind me asking, what are we building?" Matthew asked, glancing at the tarp and ignoring the fact that Ivan gave no indication of helping.

"You'll soon find out." Ivan cackled, his eyes darkening considerably. Matthew visibly shuddered, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the Russian. He watched Matthew's eyes widen in fear for a few moments before turning toward the pile of supplies. "Come Matvey," he called. "Help me join these logs."

They managed to construct the wooden frame in less than an hour, an impressive feat given the fact that it covered most of the clearing. The frame was about 60 feet wide and about 100 feet long, and it extended from the front steps of the cabin to about 20 feet into the woods. Ivan instructed Matthew to begin carrying the water as he nailed the tarp to the edges, as small smile playing briefly across his lips. Trudging through the woods, Matthew speculated on what Ivan was building. The Russian seemed unusually happy, a fact that had unnerved Matthew for most of the morning. Although the large man continued to berate and abuse his new lackey, gruffly calling out orders and mocking the lithe Canadian as he struggled to obey Ivan's commands as quickly as possible. However, he had tormented Matthew with more vigour than usual, and every once in a while he would glance longingly at the wooden frame before fixing his hungry gaze on the Canadian. Whenever this happened Matthew would look away quickly and try to convince himself that nothing had happened.

Reaching the river, Matthew leaned over the thin layer of ice that had formed along the banks, filling the sizeable bucket with water before beginning the trek back to the clearing. The cold metal of the bucket's crude handle bit into his hand, and the freezing water sloshed out of the bucket each time he attempted to drag himself over one of the larger snowdrifts, splashing onto his clothes and soaking through the legs of his pants. Upon reaching the clearing, he passed the bucket to Ivan, who scathingly remarked, "Matvey is slow at getting the water, Da? Perhaps he is afraid of getting wet? Can Matvey not handle a little water? Clearly not, as he has spilled half of it on himself." Pouring the remainder of the freezing water into the frame, Ivan instructed Matthew to grab four more buckets from the small work shed nestled amongst the trees. When the Canadian returned with the buckets, Ivan snapped a branch from a nearby tree, (Matthew cringed), positioning the four empty buckets along the branch and slinging the contraption across his shoulders. Striding through the woods, he motioned for Matthew to follow him.

Soon, Matthew realized what the branch across Ivan's back was for. When Ivan got to the river, he filled all four buckets before sliding them back on the branch by the handles. Then, he began to trudge back toward the cabin, balancing the branch and buckets on his broad shoulders. Matthew followed behind him, still struggling to carry the one bucket of water. Ivans steps were surprisingly steady, and the water rarely splashed outside the buckets. Upon reaching the frame, Ivan dumped the water in again, watching as it spread out across the tarp in small rivers. Matthew wondered if they were trying to fill the frame completely-he hoped not. They had put in five buckets already-soon to be six, once Matthew managed to drag the bucket to the edge- and many areas of the tarp were still dry. "Hurry up Matvey!" Ivan called to the struggling Canadian, "We must fill the frame before nightfall, da?" Matthew groaned.

Several hours later, the frame was finally filled. The sky had darkened and Matthew could make out the faint lights of the stars. Soon, it would be pitch black outside. Dragging his bucket back to the shed, Matthew looked at the frame. The water was already beginning to freeze in the cold night air. They had filled the frame until the water was six inches deep, leaving another six inches of wood around the pool as a border. Matthew stared at the odd set up again. What was Ivan building? With a sigh, he found that he didn't care anymore. He dragged his aching body through into the cabin, kicking off his boots before trudging to his room. Shrugging off his coat, Matthew flopped onto his bed, still in his clothes. He gathered just enough strength to drag himself under the covers, relaxing into the soft warmth. In a few moments, he was fast asleep.

Ivan crept towards Matthew's room, his hulking form surprisingly graceful as he silently pried the door open, revealing the sleeping Canadian. The covers had been pulled up to his nose, his entire frame hidden underneath mounds of blankets, his face peaceful and relaxed in his slumber. Ivan crept over to the bed, brushing the sleeping boy's hair back from his face, smiling softly. The boy was actually very useful to have around, and Ivan found himself enjoying his company more and more. His soft smile, the way he would try to hide his feelings of annoyance or pain when Ivan worked him too hard, and his gentle mannerisms were all very amusing to the Russian, who's smile continued to grow as he thought of all the time he spent with his Matvey today. Stroking the sleeping Canadian's hair again, Ivan backed out of the room, listening to the calm breathing of his sleeping comrade. His smile soon grew to an evil grin as he thought about the new addition to the clearing, and the surprise that awaited his young companion in the morning.

.oOo.

So there you go. I didnt really know how to end it, but I'll work on that later. I'm pretty sure most of you know what Ivan and Mattie built. If not, I'll give you a hint: The world juniors are on, and Canada beat Russia a few nights ago. Being the hockey nut I am, I had to incorporate it into the story. Plus, hockey will give them a common interest/something to bond over, provided they aren't too rough/nobody dies.

-Meg


End file.
